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without any injury—a call to a chemist near the Seven Dials roundabout, where a man had collapsed in the doorway, from a suspected drug overdose; and, as there was almost without fail on every shift, a call to a domestic incident, which they had sorted, and arrested the live-in boyfriend. It was the fourth time the woman had called the police after being assaulted by this man in the past eighteen months. Perhaps now she would throw him out for good, but Susi Holliday doubted it. The true tragedy for many victims of domestic abuse was that they became so demoralized, losing all their confidence, that they rarely had the courage to chuck their partner out or to leave—or the ability to believe they could make a life on their own.
    In a few hours, the downtown area around West Street with its bars and nightclubs would, inevitably, turn into a potential war zone as it did every Thursday, Friday and Saturday night, kept mostly under rigid but friendly control through Operation Marble, a massive police presence late into the night. But luckily, on their current shift pattern, they would escape these nights of dealing with constant fights and with drunk, abusive chavs. Although, in truth, some officers enjoyed getting in a good “bundle,” as they called it—it was one of the adrenaline rushes of the job.
    Susi Holliday was driving in the stop-start traffic, the wipers struggling to clout away the rain, the brake lights of the car in front flaring against their rain-soaked windscreen. RVK was engrossed in a text he was sending. They were both off for the next two days and Susi was looking forward to a quiet time with her husband James, shopping for stuff for the new flat they had recently moved into in nearby Eastbourne, where the property prices were substantially lower than Brighton.
    â€œWhat are your plans for your days off, RVK?” she asked her colleague.
    â€œUh,” he said, and raised a finger, signaling he needed to finish his texting task. After a moment he said, “Taking Joey to the football.” Joey was his twelve-year-old son, whom he doted on. “Then we’re going to the outlaws after. You?”
    Their radios crackled. Then they heard the female voice of a Resource Room supervisor.
    â€œCharlie Romeo Four?”
    RVK answered. “Charlie Romeo Four.”
    â€œCharlie Romeo Four, we have a report of an incident in the underground car park of the Chesham Gate flats, at the corner of Stanley Rise and Briars Avenue. A woman may have been attacked by an intruder. Can you attend? Grade One.”
    â€œChesham Gate?” Kyrke replied. “Yes, yes. We’re on our way.” Then he turned to Susi. “Spin her round.”
    Susi Holliday switched on the blue lights and siren and, adrenaline pumping, made a U-turn straight out into the opposite lane and accelerated. Like most of her colleagues, she always got a massive buzz out of responding to a Grade One “shout.” Along with getting in a “bundle,” driving on blues and twos was one of the great kicks—and perks—of the job. And a big responsibility. The lights and siren were, in law, a request to be allowed through, not an automatic right. And with what seemed like half of all drivers on the road either deaf, blind or just plain stupid, all blue-light runs were fraught with hazards and heart-in-the-mouth moments.
    She had one now as a Nissan Micra in front, with apparently no rear-view mirrors or indicators, suddenly switched lanes right into her path as she bore down on it at over 60 mph. “Asshole!” she hissed, missing its rear bumper by inches and undertaking it.
    As she drove, Constable Kyrke was taking down details from the supervisor, who read out the make and partial index of the woman’s car and a description of her.
    Ninety seconds later they tore over the roundabout by Brighton Pier, thanks to an intelligent bus driver stopping for them, and on up Marine Parade.